


this one's for you, kid

by fruity_little_bard



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:02:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24160264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruity_little_bard/pseuds/fruity_little_bard
Summary: When I was but a wee lad of 4 years old, I spent a handful of months living in a school bus out in the Arizona or California desert, I can never remember which desert it was. I have vague memories of driving out to the desert, but none of going back home. Because of this, many a friend has heard my drunken, crackpot theories of how I died out in the desert, and the last 18 years of my life haven't been real. That's where this piece comes from, with many an artistic liberty being taken, of course.CW/TW for: non-graphic mention of multiple suicide attempts,self-harm in the form of scratching, implied choking, and burning,dissociation,implied hallucinations,minor internalized homophobia that really isn't all that relevant to the plot,non-graphic depiction of character death
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	this one's for you, kid

I died when I was four years old. My therapist tells me that isn’t possible, adding on something about dissociation and the phenomenon of false memories. After all, a child’s imagination  _ is _ very overactive, and prone to being fanciful and fantastical. However, an even better argument for my continued existence is the pint glass of beer in my trembling hand, condensation sliding cooly over hot skin. Today is my 24th birthday, which means I have been dead for 20 years.

And yet, here I am, elbows sticking slightly to the bar, head pounding from one too many beers and not enough sustenance beforehand. Part of me wonders if I’m drinking to fall asleep before the sun rises once again, to forget my own death, or to puke my guts out on the floor of yet another grimy bar bathroom. Could be all three. It’s been like that every birthday since I could legally consume alcohol, and a few years before. 

I can feel my brain starting to spiral, tipping over the edge into a state that will only end badly. But, hey, at least I’m consistent, right? Right. Okay. Struggling for a way to ground myself, I take a long pull from my beer, gone slightly warm from the heat of my hand. Bitter liquid running down my throat reminds me I have a body, this container to exist inside of. I exist. At least, I think I do. My therapist reassures me I do. Though, is that just because my insurance pays him to say so?

“Nah,” I say quietly to myself, though, it’s not like anyone could hear me over the noise in this damn bar anyway, and down the rest of my room-temperature beer. Before I can get back to psyching myself out, and ruining yet another birthday, a fresh glass of beer appears in my hand. I look down at the beer, noting it’s my favorite, and then up into Zeke’s grinning face. His green eyes shine with mirth, long black hair peeking out from the maroon bandana I’d gifted him years ago to curl around his neck. 

“Going my way, sailor?” I ask, trying for suave even as I feel all the blood in my body rushing up my neck and into my face.

Zeke laughs, short and sweet, sinking on to the barstool next to mine. I can feel his eyes on me as I empty half the glass in one swallow. His hand covers mine on the beer, and I let him take it from me. I appreciate the way his throat works, Adam's apple bobbing while he finishes the rest. Taking my hand again, this time with nothing to hinder the contact of skin on skin, Zeke leans into my neck, says, “let’s get out of here.”

His voice buzzes pleasantly against my skin, sending heat to pool low in my abdomen, and I allow him to lead me towards the door, letting out a giggle when I stagger and he wraps an arm around my waist. Sweat cools on my skin when the doors of the small bar close behind us, and I lean into Zeke more, for warmth as much as stability. 

Later, I am going to let Zeke fuck me. I’ve been waiting for him to metaphorically--and literally, if need be--sweep me off my feet all night, and have his way with me. Zeke’s mouth is as good as his cock, and with his strong hands firmly on my hips, it is easier to forget I’ve now been dead for 20 years, and that none of this is real. And, if Zeke needs to be drunk more often than not to fuck me, who am I to ask of him the reason why?

\---

Despite my best efforts, I still get to see the sun rise twice in one day. Head spinning in protest, I drag my aching body out of bed and into the bathroom. The tiled floor is cool against my bare feet, which is a comfort, even if brushing my teeth does make my head pound even more. Ambling back into the bedroom, I pull on the jeans I no doubt slept in, and root around in the pockets for a lighter. 

That’s how Zeke finds me an hour or two later, leaning on the wall my bed is crammed against, lighting one cigarette off the end of another. Keeping one eye on me, he stretches, watching me as I watch the delicious way the hem of his shirt rides up on his hips, exposing a line of course hair leading down from his navel. “I thought you’d quit smoking those,” he says, and there’s no accusation or challenge in his voice, just a statement.

I shrug, lighting another cigarette and handing it to him. Zeke takes it, inhales, blowing smoke out his nostrils. “Thought I’d quit them, too,” he says, huffs out a quiet laugh. 

We sit like that for a time, blowing plumes of smoke up at the ceiling. Once the silence has settled like a heavy blanket, Zeke asks quietly, not looking at me, “are you still doing that other thing, too?” His eyes stray to my bare arms, the perfect circles of old burns marching up and down over the expanse of skin. 

I don’t have to answer, knowing Zeke can see the days-old marks as well as I can. But I do just the same, turning to look at him where he’s laying on his side, propped up on an elbow. “It’s hard not to.”

The unspoken is plain as day, that inflicting this pain upon myself stops the dissociation, quiets that constant and nagging voice that none of this is real. Just the after-images of a body shutting down. And I know that’s all true, I really did die, but the way Zeke looks at me makes me wish more than ever that this was real.

\---

We fall back asleep sometime around 9am, Zeke’s arms wrapped around me, face buried in the crook of my neck. I’m jolted awake, not by the last dregs of a nasty hangover reluctant to let go, but because it feels like the entirety of my body is being engulfed in flames. Letting out a short bark of surprise, I struggle out of Zeke’s embrace. I can’t move fast enough to untangle my sweaty, shaking body from the sheets, and end up in a miserable heap on the bedroom floor.

A small comfort comes in how cool the wood is, soothing the inferno. Pressing the side of my face against the wood, I thank god for having the wherewithal to type these particular symptoms into Google a handful of years ago. What popped up was heatstroke, described as a condition being marked by feverishly high core temperatures, caused by the body’s temperature-regulation methods failing when exposed to excessively high temperatures. Like slowly dying in a converted school bus in the California (or is it Arizona?) desert. 

Zeke is beside me in seconds, helping me to my feet. I let him lead me into the bathroom, and under the cold water cascading over the both of us from the showerhead. I sag against Zeke’s chest, feeling the wet cotton of his shirt sticking to my back. We stay like that until both of us are soaked through and it no longer feels like I’m being burned from the inside out.

Again, I allow Zeke to lead me out of the shower and remove my wet jeans before handing me a towel and drying himself off. Once he’s got a towel wrapped around his waist, he dries my hair for me. And then, he just holds me, letting me press my face into his naked chest and inhale his familiar scent, grounding myself back into my body once more.

\---

Eventually, Zeke has to leave for work. I follow him to the door, kiss him goodbye. Reaching up, he tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. Then, the door closes, and I’m alone in my tiny apartment. Running a hand through my hair, I wander over to the bookshelf, looking for something to pass the time until I’ve got to leave for therapy.

Nothing catches my eye, so, instead of getting lost in a book, I opt to spend the time chain-smoking. Pulling open the window at the end of my bed to the balcony, I squeeze through, bringing a lighter and fresh pack of smokes with. The smoking isn’t something I’m proud of. Then again, neither is the drinking….the  _ over _ -drinking. And that other thing, too. Once, a few years back, Zeke had joked that my arms weren’t ashtrays, and I should stop using them like they were. He was right, of course. 

Time passes faster than it has any right to, and I’m running for the door, half-smoked cigarette still clamped in my teeth. Driving to therapy, I realize I have no idea how long I was out on the balcony for. If the half-empty pack of smokes is anything to go by, it was a while. I’ve missed hours before, but it’s gotten worse, this feeling of not existing, spending more time dissociating than not. The symptoms of heat stroke have only worsened, too. Though, I’m not sure if that’s something I tell my therapist, my primary care doctor, or both. Probably both, right? Better safe than sorry, and all that.

\---

My therapist, Frankie, a kind-faced man old enough to be my father, always looks happy to see me. I asked him why, a couple years ago, and he told me that my continuing to show up for appointments means we’re both doing something right. I could guess what he meant by that without asking for any additional elaboration. Frankie is treating me, because I’m his patient, and I haven’t tried to buy the farm again after that third time.

Today is no different, with Frankie flashing me a grin as he comes out of his office to collect me. I’m on time, but just barely. I follow him back, plopping down on the green suede couch, crossing my legs. “How’s it been?” Frankie asks, like we’re just two friends catching up over a couple beers. My mouth is dry. I could use a drink. A smoke.  _ Something _ .

I barely resist the urge to shrug, forcing myself to speak, “been losing bigger chunks of time. The symptoms of heat stroke have gotten worse.”

Frankie nods, taking a moment to write something on his light yellow pad of legal paper. When it becomes apparent I have nothing else to say on those two subjects, he prompts, “and, how is the smoking going?”

Almost guiltily, a hand goes to the cigarette tucked behind my ear, then ghosts over the pack tucked into my jeans pocket along with my wallet and keys. We both know he doesn’t really mean just how much I’ve smoked today, but, where I’ve chosen to put those very cigarettes out. I still haven’t bought an ashtray, and have no intentions to for a good long while. Without really meaning to, I give myself away by pulling the sleeves of my sweater, thread-bare and littered with burn marks, more firmly down over my hands. Frankie doesn’t say anything, only nods, writes something else down. The burns, only a handful of days old, itch. If I weren’t in therapy, and thought I could get away with it, I’d give in to that temptation and scratch myself until I bleed. 

Our session ends, and Frankie walks me back out to the lobby. Before returning to his office, he puts a hand on my shoulder, asks, “have you thought of going back to the desert, trying to find the school bus?”

Blood going to ice in my veins, I turn to face him, feeling my mouth pull into a thin line. My voice is small when I ask, “why?”

“You owe yourself some kind of closure,” Frankie supplies, which I suppose is as good an answer as any. Removing his hand from my shoulder, he goes back into his office, and I go out to my car, already lighting a cigarette before I’ve left the building.

\---

Not knowing however many days (weeks?) since that last appointment with Frankie, I find myself in my bathtub, surrounded by cigarette butts and the unpleasant smell of burnt flesh. It’s anyone’s guess how long I’ve been there, but I left the apartment at some point. This observation is proven by the fact that I’ve still got my clothes, and sneakers, on, water be damned. 

My legs have fallen asleep, which is just as well, since I don’t really feel like getting out of the tub anyway. Regardless of that, I still try scrambling to my feet when the sound of my apartment door hitting the wall breaks the oppressive silence, and end up back on my ass in the water for my efforts. I’m seriously considering just laying back down when Zeke comes to a stop in the doorway, hair wild, chest heaving. “You left the door unlocked,” he says, running a slightly trembling hand through his hair.

I nod in agreement, distantly remembering choosing not to throw the deadbolt before getting into the bath. More than that, though, I remember the room spinning around me and feeling like my skin was melting. That does explain away the temperature of the water. Liquid that wasn’t hot to begin with can’t get that much colder.

Leaning against the wall, Zeke crosses his arms, saying gruffly, “your choice of bathbomb is fucking disgusting.” 

A short bark of laughter leaves my parched throat. Running a hand through the water and cigarette butts, it’s only then that I realize I’m bleeding. Thin trails of red follow the movement, and when Zeke sucks in a breath, I know he’s seen them, too. This time, instead of just burns, there are deep scratches, raw and blood-filled. I don’t remember doing that, didn’t even know my fingernails were still long enough to inflict such damage. When I still haven’t said a word after a few beats, Zeke holds out his hands to me, says, “let’s get you out of that mess.”

I take his proffered hands, finally letting out a hoarse, “fuck!” when my legs buckle and I almost land us both back in the disgusting water. Moving faster than I am capable of in the moment, an arm is under my knees, and I suddenly find myself being held bridal-style. Zeke sets me on the counter next to the sink, then moves about, scooping butts out of the water, and draining the tub.

Slowly, I remove my soaked, frigid sneakers and clothes, dropping it all into a soaked heap on the bathroom floor. Once I’m down to my boxers, Zeke takes my arm in his hands, cleaning the scratches and burns, wrapping the better part of each forearm in bandages. Once he’s finished, I lean forward until my head rests on his chest. “I scared you,” I say, all statement and no question. “I’m sorry.”

With two fingers under my chin, he brings my face up to chastely kiss the corner of my mouth. I want more, but already feel selfish as it is. The kindest thing I’ve done for my partner today is leaving the front door unlocked while I went and had a dissociation-fueled breakdown in my fucking bathtub. “I’m just glad you’re still with me,” is his soft reply.

My heart clenches at how earnest he sounds, how adoringly he gazes down at me. “You hungry?” I ask, suddenly desperate to get the hell out of my bathroom. “God willing, I’ve got the fixings for grilled cheeses. But, if not, there’s always coffee and cereal.”

Zeke nods, mouth twitching up into a smile with the barest hint of teeth, letting me take his hand and lead him into the small kitchen. While I start the coffee, he gets out the stuff for sandwiches that I blessedly have. Playfully pushing him out of the way, I drop the buttered bread into the pan. He watches me for a second, then leaves to root around in his backpack. By the time he’s back in the kitchen, I’ve got two mugs of coffee and the sandwiches waiting at the table.

Sinking into a chair, Zeke hands me a small package wrapped in what looks like the Sunday comics section of the paper. “What’s this?” I ask, peeling back the paper to reveal an object that could very easily be a saucer, or a small, misshapen bowl.

With a blush blooming in his cheeks, Zeke takes a bite of his sandwich, saying after swallowing, “been doing a clay unit with my students the last month. There was some leftovers, so I brought you an ashtray.”

“Don’t tell me you had some adorable little four year old make an ashtray for your degenerate boyfriend,” I laugh, turning the gift over in my hands. There are little daisies painted on it, and I already know that they’re too delicate to be made by such small hands.

“Lord no,” Zeke laughs, “I’ve got enough parents thinking I’m going to somehow make their kids freaks without also having them make drug paraphernalia at such a young age.”

“Ya know,” he adds, “my students miss you. They say you need to start packing my lunches again so I stop complaining about being hungry.”

Nodding, I set the ashtray in the middle of the table. “I’ll make you the best lunch for Monday, my love. You’ve got my word.”

\---

I make good on my word, sending Zeke with sack lunches for every day he stays over at my place. I also make an effort to actually use the ashtray, if only for how relieved Zeke looks when he runs his hands up and down my arms and doesn’t hit any new burns or scabs. Some things are getting better, and I allow myself to believe that I could live like this. Eking out some semblance of a life in the wake of my own death. Is that really such a selfish thing to want?

Apparently so, because the next time I dissociate, I come to on the floor of my apartment with what can only be described as claw marks on the tender flesh of my neck and throat. There’s no blood, but that doesn’t mean there’s no pain. Breathing hurts.  _ Everything  _ hurts.

After taking a few more minutes to lie there gasping and kinda sorta writhing around, I drag myself up right and onto my couch through sheer will alone, and collapse against the overstuffed cushions. Wrestling a nearly-dead phone out of my jeans pocket, I call Frankie, raspily tell him I need to see him as soon as he can get me in.

Then, after being written in for an appointment tomorrow morning, I give into the ache of my entire body and drift into a fitful unconsciousness.

\---

Even though it’s just one day later that I’m slumped on the couch in Frankie’s office, chain-smoking my way through what could easily be my third of fourth pack that day, it feels like years have passed. I don’t feel real, for once fully aware that I am dissociating, but powerless to pull myself out of it in any real way. There are fresh scratches--more like gouges--on my arms, and my neck hurts like I had been trying to claw something out of it.

Frankie clears his throat, and I jump, dropping the cigarette I was about to light off the end of another. He’d said something. I know he had, distantly watching his lips move, but not hearing anything beyond the blood rushing in my ears. Cocking my head to the side, I rasp out, “what was that?”

Taking a moment to scribble something down, he says, “what’s your plan with all this?” When I only give him a blank look, he clarifies, “you said on the phone last night that you couldn’t do ‘this’ anymore, and as your therapist, I would like to know what you’re planning.”

Stalling, I retrieve the cigarette I’d dropped from the carpet, taking a second to light it and blow a stream of smoke out my nostrils. “I’m taking your advice,” I say, “going back to the desert. Something has to happen.”

Frankie nods, like he wants me to continue, and so I do. “I know I’m not crazy. Just  _ dead _ , and so fucking tired of not getting any rest, even though I’ve been dead for twenty years!”

Somewhere in that sentence, my voice had risen, and I take another drag in an attempt to keep myself from really yelling. The absolute last thing I need is some well-meaning secretary to have me carted away. I refuse to be institutionalized again, stuffed full of drugs and lies. 

Once my breathing has slowed, Frankie asks, “and what about Zeke?”

“What about him?”

“You’ve built a life together. Don’t you want to keep that?”

Barely resisting the urge to scoff, I reply, “my feelings for Zeke aren’t real, because he isn’t real, and neither am I. At least, how I appear to you and those around me isn’t real. I’m little more than a ghost.”

Frankie nods, takes a moment to write something else down, says quietly, almost sadly, “I suppose I should cancel our next appointment.”

Feeling tears filling my eyes, quickly threatening to overflow, I choke back what can only be described as a sob, and go to stand up from the couch. Frankie stands, too, coming around his desk to open the door for me. He puts a hand on my shoulder, and I just barely resist the urge to collapse in his arms, tell him to have the secretary call the hospital, and prolong this suffering even more than I already have. It’s time, and I’m too tired to keep fighting, fooling myself and my dying body that I’ve got any more life left in me. 

Instead, I run a shaking hand down my face, and move out of the way so Frankie can close the door to his office behind me. Then, I hurry out of the building, and collapse across the backseats in my shitty car, where I really do allow myself to break down in great, gasping sobs.

\---

After I’ve collected myself enough to drive safely, I go home, and call Zeke. He shows up less than an hour later, duffel bag in hand, acting like what we’re doing is nothing more than a camping trip, much less finally laying the long-dead to rest. His smile, the fondness in his eyes, are only for me, and my heart clenches at what this must be doing to him.

Sitting in the passenger seat of my car, watching Zeke as he drives and fiddles with the radio, I tell myself that he isn’t real. Zeke, with his long black hair and bright green eyes, bandana I gave him tied loosely around his neck, does not exist. This man that I have known for what my brain has tried to fool me into believing is years, that no longer has to be drunk to fuck me, to make love to me, is not real. His left hand on my knee is nothing more than the aftershocks of my body shutting down. 

I drift as we drive for hours upon hours, chain-smoking, holding Zeke’s hand to keep myself from scratching my arm to ribbons any more than I already have. He watches me watching him, smiles easily whenever our eyes meet. One mercy in finally dying is that I will not miss him. A heart that no longer beats cannot ache for what could have been.

\---

By the time we reach what could be either the Arizona or California desert, the sun is setting, painting the sky in brilliant shades of reds and oranges. In terms of places to die, at least it is beautiful. The only things breaking up the tranquility of a hot desert night are the rapid beating of my heart, and the abandoned school bus staring us down with rows of broken windows less than ten feet away. Shuddering, I turn my back on the faded yellow husk, and go about helping Zeke set up our tent.

We make love as the sun goes down for what I know will be the last time. And as Zeke gasps out his orgasm into the flushed skin of my neck, yet more tears cascade down my face. He holds me then, tenderly, and I want this moment to last and last until nothing else is left.

But, not very many things care what I want, and all too soon, Zeke’s breathing has evened out into sleep. I lay there for what could easily be hours or years, feeling the pull of that faded yellow husk. My skin itches and burns, sweat pouring off me, soaking my clothes. With lungs that feel as if they are no longer to fully expand, I force myself to sit up, and begin the slow, painful process of getting shakily to my feet.

Zeke cracks an eye open once I’ve made it to an unsteady crouch, asks, “where’re you going? I thought we were waiting until tomorrow?”

Heart clenching for just how much I have fooled myself into believing I love this man, this figment of what could only be my imagination, I whisper, “go back to sleep, my love. It’s only nature calling.”

Leaning down, I kiss the corner of his mouth, before forcing myself to stand and leave the tent. Zeke doesn’t watch me go, trusting me to return to him, and guilt settles like a rock in my stomach. I may be cruel enough to leave Zeke, but I could never be so cruel as to force him to watch me die. Nobody else but the hot desert night, and that damned yellow school bus, needs to see me finally expire as I was meant to twenty years ago.

\---

Stepping onto that school bus feels like coming home, and I’m too exhausted and run down to feel anything about that besides resigned. The interior is a mess, food packages ripped open and strewn around, the small television screen shattered. Walking further inside, I look out through the busted windows, marveling at how I can still see Zeke’s tent at the same time I can feel myself losing my near six feet of height.

By the time I’ve reached my bunk-bed, tucked away at the back of the bus, I am so small I can no longer see through the windows. This realization makes something inside me cry out, and I briefly wonder what would happen if I tried to leave, crawl back into that tent, and into Zeke’s arms. But, I’m too afraid to try and find out, and there is an indent in the mattress that my little body slots into perfectly. 

Something happens then, when my head hits the pillow. Suddenly, all the air is sucked out of the school bus, and it feels like I’m on fire, so dehydrated that there’s no more sweat on my blazing skin. I can’t even move, everything in my small body hurts so much. I lay there, gasping, distantly wondering if Zeke is going to miss me. 

“Zeke?” a small voice asks the empty school bus, and it is only after a beat that I realize the voice is mine. This realization is quickly followed by another, that I don’t remember who Zeke is. My heart flutters in panic, breathing becoming even more frantic, and what little water remains in my body comes out as tears that slide down my cheeks and into my ears.

\---

The air stops moving again, once those tears are shed, and I feel as much as hear my body sucking in one last rattling breath that I know I won’t be letting back out. 

\---

Then, the only sounds in that California or Arizona desert is the wind moving through an empty school bus, rustling covers of books baked in the heat, and ruffling through the bone-dry hair of a body long-since dead that has finally come home, finally been laid to rest. 


End file.
